When the topic is hurricanes in these parts, the conversation begins and ends with the one that stormed ashore on Sept. 21, 1938.

"The Great Hurricane of 1938," slammed into Long Island with such force that it registered on a seismograph in Alaska and washed windows in central Vermont with a salty spray.

The loss of life was estimated at somewhere between 650 people and 700, including 380 in Rhode Island, 99 in Massachusetts, 50 on Long Island, and 85 in Connecticut. So many people died in Westerly, R.I., (112) that there was a shortage of embalming fluid.

Monetary losses were put at $500 million in 1938 dollars, of which only 5 percent was covered by insurance.

Everyone who survived, of course, had a story, many of which have entered into Hurricane of '38 lore:

The man who left home for the post office to mail back a new barometer he thought was malfunctioning, only to find his house gone when he returned.

The sight of birds flying full force into the wind, and remaining in place.

Chestnuts being blown off a tree and peppering a nearby house like buckshot.

People standing on the beach looking at a strange fog bank rolling in only to realize as it gets closer that it is actually a wall of water traveling at highway speeds.

Forecasters Clueless

As Sept. 21 dawns, no one knows the most epic hurricane in New England history is on the way — including the National Weather Bureau.

Meteorologists there have been tracking the "Cape Verde" born hurricane since noticing it near Puerto Rico, but breathe easier when it abruptly veers north. When hurricanes turn north as they approach the U.S. coastline, they are almost always pushed out to sea by the prevailing west-to-east winds.

The official forecast for New England on Sept. 21 is windy; rain possibly heavy; cooler.

What the Washington D.C. based forecasters are missing, though, is that a strong high pressure system in the North Atlantic is keeping the storm from being pushed away, and a narrow low-pressure trough is being created that will guide the storm directly toward New England.

Blocked to the east and west, the storm is unable to spread out and so it becomes increasingly concentrated, increasingly powerful as it heads north. Near Cape Hatteras, N.C., it picks up the jet stream and now it is roaring up the coast at 60 mph.

Because the storm track does not take it over any land mass, it doesn't lose any strength as moves. The timing is also bad. The storm will hit at high tide on the equinox, when tides are already abnormally high.

The eye of the storm passes directly over Milford. The wind is blowing 100 mph, but along the shore it is the storm surge that is doing the major damage. Docks are being reduced to kindling, boats are being driven aground, cottages are being demolished, swept away or washed across bays intact.

Inland, rivers are rising, streets are flooding, trees are crashing down, utility poles are cracking, live wires are dancing, roofs are being blown off, and people are dying.

A man grabs a live wire and is electrocuted.

A corner pronounces a victim "frightened to death."

A prison guard is killed when the wind blows him into a wall.

A Mystic woman is struck by a shard of glass from a broke window and bleeds to death.

In West Haven, a roller coaster is carved into toothpicks.

In Middletown, the roof of the state mental hospital is blown off.

In Stony Creek, a rich woman and her maid are seen floating atop a grand piano.

In the Connecticut River Valley, hundreds of tobacco sheds are blown down.

In Hartford, the barometric pressure falls to 28.04, the lowest reading ever recorded in the state.

The coast is being scoured by the surge, beach communities being wiped off the map.

In New London, waves are so strong that they obliterate docks and drive a 1,000-ton ship into town. At some point an electrical spark starts a fire and soon a quarter square mile of the city's business district is in flames. The fire department is helpless in the face of the 100 mph winds. Departments from other towns are called but can't respond because the roads are blocked. Just as it appears the entire city might be reduced to ashes it is saved when the wind shifts blowing the flames back toward what has already been consumed.

As bad as it is in Connecticut, it is worse in Rhode Island, where entire cottage are blown across Narragansett Bay and deposited on the mainland.

Such shorefront communities as Misquamicut, Quonochontaug, Charlestown Beach and Matunuck are washed over and there is no high ground toward which to flee. Of the 380 who die in Rhode Island, 130 do so in Westerly and another 45 in the Quonochontaug/Charlestown Beach areas.

At Misquamicut a man is driving away from the coast with his family when he sees a giant waving chasing him. At 40 mph, the wave is still gaining, and it is only when he hits 60 and the terrain turns upward does he win the race.

The surge is so powerful that any body of water facing the ocean soon becomes a funnel.

A 20-foot surge enters the Connecticut River in Old Saybrook and seven miles later smashes into the fleet in Essex.

Another surge travels up the Thames River in New London and 10 miles later it puts Norwich under 11 feet of water.

No place gets it worse than Providence, 40 miles from the ocean. The surge powers up the Providence River with such force that the center instantly floods. People drown on the steps of city hall, and cars are seen 10 feet below, some with their lights still on.

Well inland, the wind is the menace.

In Springfield it does considerable damage to the state fair.

In Worcester, it claims roofs and steeples.

In New Hampshire, the winds literally deforest Dartmouth's tree-graced campus.

In Vermont, thousands of the state's prized maples are flattened.

On Mount Washington, a 183 mph gust destroys a train trestle.

In New York City there is major flooding, and the flag atop the local Weather Bureau office is ripped to shreds.

Flooding is also a problem in the already rain-soaked northeast, and the residents of Hartford soon find themselves locked in another pitched battle with the Connecticut River, which is threatening to swallow the city for the second time in two years.

For actress Katherine Hepburn, who is home in the Fenwick section of Old Saybrook before filming "The Philadelphia Story," the day begins with great luck, and ends with incredible misfortune.

In the morning, Hepburn scores a hole on the Fenwick Golf Course sixth hole, and later in the day she takes a swim in the increasingly turbulent sound.

When it becomes apparent a bad storm is brewing, Hepburn's brother, Richard, wants to evacuate but his mother does not think it will be necessary because the cottage's piling have recently been reinforced. She is wrong.

The ocean comes in fast, windows shatter, chimneys topple, a section of the house breaks off and soon Katherine, Richard, their mother, the cook and a family friend are fleeing through a dining room window and wading in chest-deep water toward higher ground. When they get there they look back to see the cottage washed away.

Six hours after beginning its assault, the "Great Hurricane of 1938" finally breaks up into shower in Canada.

Could such a destructive storm strike again here? Consider this: A hurricane of similar magnitude, doing similar damage, following an almost identical path did just that on Sept. 23, 1815.